


you were there, chasing planets on my forehead

by deadlight_s (scamsHan)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Storm Chasers, References to Depression, Richie Tozier is a Little Sad But Thats Ok, Storm Chasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:28:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26489455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scamsHan/pseuds/deadlight_s
Summary: Richie Tozier is 10 years old the first time he dreams of the storm. A purple sky is cracked open above him, bolts of lightning striking at his feet.Richie Tozier Chases Storms. That's what he feels he was put on earth to do. However, there are times when chasing one thing becomes running from something else.What happens when he finally gets caught?
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 22
Kudos: 220





	you were there, chasing planets on my forehead

**Author's Note:**

> I believe I started this fic [looks at wall calendar] three months ago. This started off as simply an "Eddie and Richie as rival storm chasers" fic and well, it spiraled a bit! So here it is!
> 
> Special thanks to Mars for reading this over for me! And all my friends who cheered me on about this! xoxo

Richie Tozier is 10 years old the first time he dreams of the storm. A purple sky is cracked open above him, bolts of lightning striking at his feet. Swirling wind whips around, enveloping him in an embrace of blistering chill and erratic force. His feet lift off the ground. Up. Up. Up. The sky swallows him whole. As the clouds close around him, Richie wakes up. His pulse thunders in his ears and his fingertips tingle with electricity. He can taste the rain at the back of his throat.

He thinks that’s how it started, this need to feel static charged air. The need to be deafened by thunder. He remembers the lanky boy age 11, barefoot and underdressed, with his neck craned back and face parallel to the sky. He remembers how he shivered with every drop that landed, his skin becoming waterlogged. He remembers how the inside of his nose burned with the smell of grass and mud. He remembers his mother’s voice.  _ Richie sweetie, come inside, before the rain washes you away _ . It’s a joke when she says it, voice kind and light as she wraps him up in a towel. However, when Richie repeats it to himself at night alone in his room, it sounds more like a wish.

Wishes turn into dreams which turn into five step plans, apparently. Richie’s plan involved a college acceptance letter from Ball University, which then became his parents driving him and his stuff to Muncie, Indiana. Four years later he had a BS in Climatology and a vague knowledge of ArcGiS. 

That was almost twenty years ago. Many aspects of Richie’s life had changed with the passage of time, the big one being that on many occasions people would refer to him correctly as Dr. Tozier. There were other things too, none of them important. Richie got broader, his hair grew longer and his prescription lenses got thicker. Mainly, he got older. 

The things that didn’t change, however, were important to an alarming degree. Richie’s vision of a purple sky still plays in his mind at night. The hairs on the back of his neck still stand up at the sound of thunder. His skin still waterlogged after all these years.

_ Richie sweetie, come inside, before the rain washes you away. _

While his colleagues went off to esteemed research positions tucked away in basement laboratories, Richie went in a different direction.

Richie went to chase.

“Air t-temperature went up by 2 degrees this morning. P-predicting we may get an F2 tonight.”

Richie puts his feet up on the passenger side dashboard “Oh ye of little faith, Billy Boy. First week of March in the Alley? It may be an F3, stop being cynical.”

The Alley, specifically, is Tornado Alley. It stretches from the upper region of North Texas all the way to the southern region of South Dakota. The stretch of land is a Climatologists wet dream, the result of a jet stream hitting the space where air of various temperatures and humidities meet. Richie has driven every inch of it twice.

It’s the beginning of the storm season, at least the official beginning. In his years of charting weather phenomena, Richie learned rather quickly that there were always exceptions to the rules, especially in the region they were in now, along the Red River, where Texas meets Oklahoma.

“I’m n-not cynical. I’m being realistic.” Bill responds blandly, not looking up from the absolute beast of a laptop he was perching on his thighs.

“You’re being realistically boring,” Richie whines.

“You can do better,” Stan says, his hands on the steering wheel at 10 and 2, eyes not leaving the road.

They’re driving up the highway, looking to meet a storm cell towards the east. They had been carefully monitoring air temperature and cloud patterns for the better part of the two weeks leading up to storm season. In that time they’ve had a lot of misses, storms coming and going before they could get there. It’s not an unusual issue, a common reality for storm chasers. The call of a storm being missed by a moment.

“Your faith in me is astounding, Stan. Really, I’m touched.” Richie crosses his arms.

“Touched in the head maybe.”

Richie, Bill and Stan had been a team for a little over six years. The three of them were shoved together in a failed network attempt to get a storm chasing show off the ground, after some of the storm spotting videos Richie had uploaded to YouTube went viral. Bill had been an environmental scientist from Austin with a bit of a cartography fetish. Stan was a videographer, a transplant from National Geographic. Apparently they were an entertaining enough team. Yeah, Richie didn’t get it either. Either way, it led to six episodes of a decent, albeit predictable reality series that was canceled before the first episode aired. The three of them just decided to stick together after that, why break up when they were going to be doing the same thing anyway.

“It’s st-st...It’s still the beginning of the season. Plenty of time for things to get worse. Besides, I would like to hold off on getting yelled at for intercepting anything more than an F1 the first week of storm season.”

Richie laughs “The old ball and chain still a killjoy, then?” 

“My h-husband enjoys my company and wants me home in one piece,” Bill pushes back, unimpressed. “Having s-someone care about your wellbeing is nice. You should try it sometime.”

Bill’s husband, and slight pain in Dr. Richard Tozier’s side is Mike Hanlon. Also known to many an elderly woman as  _ that handsome Channel 5 weather man. _ Hanlon’s influence had wormed its way into their lives when they first got their current jobs as Channel 5’s weather spotters after the show fell through five years ago. Instead of reporting their findings to be broadcasted at a 4 AM time slot, Bill now reported them into Hanlon’s earpiece. Overtime, their eager cartographer started making more than business calls. One wedding later and they were still doing the same shit, reporting storms into Hanlon’s ear punctuated with the whispered promise of  _ we’ll be careful, I promise. _

Richie’s about to bite back with a childish response before he’s cut off by the sound of his phone. He pulls it from the front pocket of his shirt, checking the notification.

**_Eds:_ ** _ 2 degree temp increase from coast. Cold winds coming in from north. F3 highly probable @ estimated East storm site. _

**_Richie:_ ** _ giving intel to the enemy, eds? does channel 9 know they have a mole? _

For a short while, Channel 5 was the only local news station with designated storm spotters on payroll. Most stations use data sourced from volunteer chasers that submit updates to the NWS. Channel 5 hiring the three of them was a way to differentiate from other news stations, boasting about their quick and accurate updates. The tagline being  _ The only channel you can trust during storm season. _ Hanlon’s reports would be interspersed with footage they collected from the field, whether viewers cared about the reporting or not, it still made for good tv.

That was until a year ago when Channel 9 hired a storm spotting team of their own, an attempt to give Channel 5 a run for their money.

**_Eds:_ ** _ Idiot. _

**_Eds:_ ** _ We’re supposed to share chart information with other spotters as a precaution. _

**_Eds:_ ** _ And don’t call me Eds!!  _

**_Richie:_ ** _ aw u worried about us? _

Channel 9’s storm spotting team were people that Richie could begrudgingly admit were good, even great, at their jobs. Where a good two-thirds of the Channel 5 trio had come from the grinding gears of academia, Channel 9 had decided to go for meteorologists. Channel 9’s team was headed by Beverly Marsh, formerly of CNN’s weather desk. She had reported on every major meteorological event that had occurred in the past 5 years in a way that Richie could only describe as absolutely astounding to watch. 

She wasn’t the only one Channel 9 brought in from the cable news limelight. Ben Hanscom, CNN’s field meteorologist, was also brought into the fold, following swiftly when Beverly had resigned from the desk. Chasing storms. Chasing red heads. All the same really, when you think about it.

The final third, the academic third, was Dr. Edward Kaspbrak— Eddie, a Hydrologist turned storm spotter. While Richie’s feelings for Beverly and Ben could be easily described as  _ respectful from a distance _ , his feelings for Eddie were something else entirely.

“Eds says they’re predicting an F3 to touch down at the storm site.”

Stan huffs, “Well if Dr. Edward Kaspbrak says it, then it must be true.”

“W-what makes them think that?” Bill asks.

“We’re getting a cold front in from the north,” Richie reads from his phone.

Stan winces.

Bill simply utters “Shit.”

Richie checks his phone again.

**_Eds:_ ** _ It’s good ethics? Do you remember ethics? You know, THE THING YOU LEARN THE FIRST WEEK OF SCHOOL? _

**_Richie:_ ** _ eds ur hypertension _

**_Eds:_ ** _ You’re the reason I have it. _

**_Richie:_ ** _ stop frowning ur gonna get wrinkles _

**_Eds:_ ** _ I AM NOT FROWNING _ .  _ YOU CAN’T EVEN SEE ME. _

**_Richie:_ ** _ k _

Richie really never meant to fall in love with him, not at first. He was 24 and in the middle of his Ph.D. program at the University of Illinois. Eddie had been a Med school drop out turned environmental biologist. Somehow he had come to the conclusion that he could do more for people by analyzing dangerous weather patterns in a dark server room instead of being something normal, like a surgeon or pediatrician. 

It was inevitable that their paths crossed, both of them working as research assistants in the same Hydrology lab. If you asked him, Richie wouldn’t call it love at first sight, just an appreciation of doe eyes, furrowed brows and a chiseled jaw. It didn’t help that Eddie would look at things with the intensity of a category 5 hurricane. If Richie chose to pray to a benevolent god that one day Eddie would look at him the same way he looked at a spreadsheet, then that was his secret to keep.

**_Eds:_ ** _ I am trying to help! You know, so you don’t drive headfirst into a TORNADO? _

**_Richie:_ ** _ haha ye wouldn’t want that to happen _

**_Eds:_ ** _ Richie. _

**_Richie:_ ** _ nw eds i gave the boys the intel _

“ETA to the site is about what, thirty minutes?” Richie asks, slipping his phone back into the front pocket of his shirt.

“Depending on the traffic on the route, could be more.” Stan responds with ease. He’s heard this question before many times.

“Ok, so let’s say 45 minutes then. That sound about right, Big Bill?” Richie turns, flashing Bill a quick smile.

Bill smiles back “Y-yeah. You’re thinking we can intercept it?”

“You know me so well.”

To intercept means to, well, to intercept. More specifically, in the context of storm chasing, it’s the act of driving ahead of a predicted landing point of a storm and riding along the path it takes. There’s no point to it really, an errant thrill that comes as the reward from the days spent looking at maps and air temps. The rush of racing God and winning. It’s reckless, and stupid. Two traits that all three of them had possessed.

His front pocket buzzes again.

**_Eds:_ ** _ Oh good. Hopefully one of you with working brain cells will actually use it. _

**_Richie:_ ** _ billy boy is navving us to victory  _

**_Eds:_ ** _ I was talking about Stan. _

**_Richie:_ ** _ stan has working brain cells but he ignores them during storm season _

**_Eds:_ ** _ I don’t know why I even bother trying with you. _

_ One day, the sky will swallow you whole, Richie. What happens when it takes you away? _

They were drunk, when Eddie first whispers that to him on the back porch of the duplex that Richie had been living in. A thunderstorm had arrived in the form of a giant cumulonimbus. Eddie had watched his fair share of storms, but not like Richie did. He had to beg for Richie to sit next to him on the porch, instead of running barefoot out into the open yard. Richie didn’t get him at the time.  _ Think you’ve had a little too much to drink, Eds. _ He whispered back to him. Their shoulders were touching, faces close enough to feel the static between them Richie could’ve kissed him then. He didn’t, but he could have. He wanted, but could never take. He chased, but could never catch.

“F3 is a p-p-...is a pretty big storm, for the front half of the season” Bill says, typing away at some spreadsheet. “Could be unpredictable”

The Fujita scale to measure tornadoes went as thus, each F-level was an increment of predicted damage based on the wind speed of the storm. Storms with winds less than 73 miles per hour were F0s, frightening but did only a light amount of damage. F1s and F2s were when the winds picked up speed ranging from 73-157 miles per hour. F2s were when you got into the “considerable damage” range, yet you would probably be safe camping out in a hallway or your laundry room. F3s and F4s, when the winds got to 200 miles per hour, are described with words like  _ severe _ and  _ devastating.  _ If you lived in an area where they could touch, you probably had a storm shelter in your neighborhood. F5s were nothing short of apocalyptic.

The closest Richie Tozier had ever been to something that felt like an F5 was when he kissed Eddie Kaspbrak for the first time. He got lucky. That’s how he’d describe it if asked, a second chance brought to him once again by an oncoming storm. Richie had tiptoed over the edge of 24 into 25, his second year of his program almost at a close. They were caught off guard this time, thunder rolling in as they sat in his car. Sharing french fries and whispers in a Food Mart parking lot. Richie's fingers trembled at their proximity, once again much too close but not close enough.  _ Storm’s coming in, Rich. We should get out of here. _ An invitation. That’s what it’d felt like. Yet, Richie always found himself wanting, putting feelings in places where they didn’t belong. He feared that this too was one of those moments. A flash of lightning. A crack of thunder. Richie did what he always did. 

_ No, Eds, I’m exactly where I need to be. _

Richie couldn’t exactly pinpoint when the numbness began. He remembers high school. He remembers bullies, ones that would poke and push and pound until the lanky boy couldn’t cry anymore. He remembers the therapists who would ask  _ How does that make you feel, Richie?  _ He remembers responding  _ I couldn’t tell you, Doc. _ He remembers the feeling of burning his hand on the stove. An accident, one that made him hiss through clenched teeth. He remembers how the skin on his fingers tugged and ached for three days after.

He’s been chasing that feeling ever since.

Richie’s mind wanders back to the storm. To the kiss. To Eddie. He remembers how he pushed the door open and stepped out into the open air. The wind was picking up, his hair and loose clothes whipping and fluttering under the force. The sky had gone from blue to deep gray in an instant, flashing purple with each bolt of lightning. Richie looked up.

_ Richie sweetie, come inside, before the rain washes you away. _

He needed to get closer.

He hoists himself to the top of his car, taking a moment to stand basking in the haze before laying flat on his back. He pulled his hand to his chest, his fingers drumming over his heart. His skin vibrates against the cool metal of the roof of the car. He always felt like he was still in that dream. As if he waited long enough, the wind would wrap its tendrils around him and lift. Up. Up. Up.

_ Richie, are you fucking insane? _

The words cut through the thunder like a blade. Richie doesn’t have time to react before Eddie scrambled up to the roof, wedging against his side.  _ What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you trying to get struck by lightning? _ As usual, Richie doesn’t have an answer. Did he want to be struck? He didn’t think so, not in the traditional sense. He didn’t want to die. He also didn’t want to address why that was the first thought he had when he was asked the question.

He must have been quiet for a long time, because Eddie has placed his hand on his chest. His chest rumbles, Eddie’s touch hitting him like the pads of a defibrillator. Richie wondered if he could feel how it beat. How Richie’s heart quaked and trembled under his palm?  _ Come inside, Richie. _

Richie can’t remember which of them moved first. He’d like to think he was brave enough to take, to let himself catch this one thing. He can remember the feel of Eddie’s lips moving against his own, however. He thinks that’s the more important part. The way Eddie moaned against his mouth. The way his teeth felt against Richie’s tongue. He caught that moment and held it in the back of his mind like lightning in a bottle.

The projected eastern storm site was fortunately in a rural part of the southern border of Oklahoma. The fear of destruction always stood at the forefront of their minds. Everyday they faced dragons, storms that could swallow cities. 

**_Eds:_ ** _ Storm’s picking up from the North. Driving the perimeter of the site. Keeping a wide berth. _

**_Richie:_ ** _ ur not going for an intercept? _

**_Eds:_ ** _ Why would we? We’re monitoring the storm. Intercepts are for adrenaline junkies, not scientists. _

**_Richie:_ ** _ ha pussy _

**_Eds:_ ** _ Idiot. _

It felt like nothing had changed since they split, if you could even call it that. College flings were fleeting and faded with time, like dreams or wind storms. Richie knew the score ever since he and Eddie crashed together on the top of his car. Their time in University after that were repeat performances in different sceneries, mainly in their respective bedrooms or backseats. Quick tumbles, nothing lasting. That was ok for Richie, who saved the feel of Eddie’s touch in the back of his mind. The burn of each kiss nested under his skin. If he poked at the places where Eddie had run his teeth along the crook of his neck he could still feel the marks that were left behind, even after they have long since faded.

It wasn’t a surprise that Eddie ran off to some fellowship in Missouri after graduation. It was even less of a surprise that they lost touch shortly after. Richie never believed in forever. He barely believed in just long enough.

**_Eds:_ ** _ Never going to get used to the pressure shift. Feels like my fucking head is going to explode. _

**_Richie:_ ** _ thats the best part eds _

**_Eds:_ ** _ You would say that you fucking werido. Enjoy not being able to hear shit for a week. _

The text pulls a laugh from Richie’s throat, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

**_Richie:_ ** _ worried id forget the sound of ur voice spagheddie? _

**_Eds:_ ** _ Fuck you. _

**_Eds:_ ** _ I wouldn’t let you forget. _

He never thought he’d be in between Eddie’s sheets again. Tiny miracles, he guessed. A year of them. He had been eating lunch with Bill and Stan in some old diner that had become their pseudo headquarters during the storm season. Open 24/7 and didn’t mind it if a few adventurous storm chasers hogged the corner booth. They had found out about the Channel 9 storm team, and apparently they were meeting them there to scope out the competition. Richie had his whole spiel planned, rambling about  _ the rush of wind  _ and  _ the pound of thunder _ . Sure Channel 9 could hire a team of storm chasers but had they really  _ chased the storm _ ? Richie didn’t think so.

Every single joke he had planned died on his lips when Eddie had walked into the diner. 

Age had set on the two of them differently, of course. In the ways it had melted and stretched Richie to something unrecognizable from his former self, it had filled Eddie out, making the parts of him that Richie remembered with astonishing clarity more pronounced. Same doe eyes. Same chiseled jaw. Same Eddie.

The bits in between their reunion and swift collision are blurred for Richie. He remembers shaking hands, a stilted  _ Dr. Tozier  _ being uttered, along with the Bill and Stan’s inquiries of  _ You two know each other? _ Or something like that. He remembers a gentle, pleading  _ can I talk to you, for a second?  _ followed by Eddie leading him to the tiny hallway where the bathrooms are. He remembers static, electricity vibrating in the air between them. 

He asked what happened to the esteemed Dr. Kaspbrak. Last time he checked, Eddie had been in some palatial climatology lab out in California. What had made him stoop so low as to chase dragons in the form of storms?

_ I needed a change of scenery. _

Richie remembers laughing. It came from his chest, exploding like a clap of thunder. A change of scenery and he picked Texoma? The taint of the Great Plains?

_ Well, you picked it. _

Richie doesn’t know what to say to that.

He can’t remember who moved first. He’d like to think it was him this time. That with age also came bravery or something close to it. He’d like to think he was the one who placed his hands on Eddie’s cheeks and pulled him in like the moon pulled the tides. He’d like to think that, but he knew better. Eddie was a hurricane and Richie liked to chase. Eddie called and Richie followed, simple as that. 

The kisses weren’t special. Rushed. Not enough time to learn how they’d fit together. Nothing tragic, they’d get more chances. Richie remembers the press of lips, the clacking of teeth sandwiched in between whispers of  _ I saw your show, Rich. _ and  _ You’re reckless, you know that? _

Richie remembers laughing. A promise. Oh, he’d show him reckless.

The team doesn’t think they’re on the right route for an intercept, the projected path of the storm moving too quickly to catch. However, if they stayed with their current trajectory they could follow parallel to it. Stan had gotten off the highway on Bill’s call, now driving carefully on a dirt road.

The hair on Richie’s arm stands on end, it’s close.

“Wind’s getting pretty gnarly,” Stan says, his eyes darting back and forth. The trees surrounding their path bending and swaying under the force of the wind. The van shook, rumbling under the rush of air.

“Are any of you calling it in?” Stan asks.

“N-no service,” Bill grumbles, frustrated. “I’m going to need you to drive us to some higher g-ground. Maybe I can get something there”

Tornados are born from stagnant skies. That is to say there's a build. There is an inherent suspense to the way the gray sky of an impending cyclone sits upon a site. If it weren't for whipping wind that vibrated the air with each pass, it would seem almost still. An expansive nothingness, building pressure until finally, something pops.

“W-we might be getting touchdown!” Bill yells.

The pop is a funnel. At first it's an open mouth, sinking its teeth into the sky. Then it wraps and twists into a braid, a winding cyclone. It's the culmination of everything, the pressure changes, the jet stream, the blinking dots on Bill's radar. A storm. The sight took Richie's breath away. Every time. Something new in more of the same.

"St-st-stop here!" Bill points over their shoulders from the back seat to a piece of open land on the side of the road. Their suspicions were correct, no intercept this time. It wasn't a waste though. They could still get something nice for Mike and the gang back at Channel 5 to show the people at home. Richie could still feel the electricity prick the back of his neck.

The twister is sizable, Eddie’s call of an F3 being accurate. A cyclone of swirling wind and mist, lightning striking on the ground surrounding it. It’s not uniform, one side of it being larger and rounder than the other.

The pressure shift makes Richie’s ears pop. It’s invigorating.

“It’s tightening up,” Stan yells as he hefts the video camera onto his shoulder.

There’s more shouting that falls on deaf ears as Richie cranes his neck back, sight drinking in every inch of the oncoming cyclone. His head feels like it’s going to crack and burst. He thinks it’s the pressure change. He knows it’s the pressure change. The storm fluctuates, the funnel shifting and pulling with each rotation. He can’t quite place the feeling that rumbles in his chest as the funnel tumbles forward ploughing through the wet ground beneath it. He thinks it’s heart. He knows it’s his heart. 

There’s a hum in Richie’s ears that spreads out through the back of his head. Bits of wood and debris had been picked up by the twister, the storm transforming into a weapon. More shouting. Words like  _ it picked up something _ and  _ too dangerous  _ whisper at the back of Richie’s head. 

No, not whispers, but shouting.

“We’ve gotta get out of here!” Stan yells, moving back towards the van.

It’s as if Richie’s ten again, his lenses reflecting the glow of a purple, cracked sky. It’s like if the storm had grown limbs, and those tendrils grew hands that gripped at the front of Richie’s shirt.

“Richie! Come on, let’s go!” Stan yells at him, or was it Bill? He couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter.

His blood ignites, skin turning to glass. He could break. He would break. The storm pulls, they all do for Richie.  _ Up. Up. Up.  _

A hand grabs his shoulder and shakes, “Richie, come on!” Stan, his eyes holding an intensity that was all too familiar. Fear, electric and paralyzing, like lightning.

This time, Richie allows himself to be pulled towards the van.

They don’t talk about it. They never do. The van is always quiet after storms, lessons learned after years of arguments, screams and questions of  _ are you crazy?  _ What’s the point of asking anymore when the answer is always the same.

They don’t talk about it on the drive back. They don’t talk about when Bill calls the station. Stuttered whispers of  _ N-n-no Honey, we’re fine. We’re ok. _ serving as the soundtrack for the majority of the ride.

They especially don’t talk about as they sit in their usual corner booth at their usual 24/7 diner as their usual basket of french fries grows cold between the three of them. It’s silent, except for the gentle typing of Bill as he looks at their projections, they may get another storm tonight if they’re lucky.

“Heard you boys got to the F3 site,” Bev Marsh startles the three of them out of their stupor as she scoots into the empty seat next to Stan “I told Dr. K we should’ve come up from the South, but he wanted to play it safe.”

Richie tries not to react too openly at the mention of Eddie, he didn’t know what the thing between them was, if it was anything worth speaking about.

“It’s g-g-g...better to play safe with things like this,” Bill replies, setting his laptop aside.

Bev eats one of the lukewarm fries from their basket “Sure, but also if I wanted to play safe and look at charts all day I’d have stayed behind the desk. I’ve been trying to convince the guy that us getting an intercept will be real sexy for our overlords at Channel 9. He won’t play ball.”

“Well,” Stan follows suit, taking a bite of a lukewarm french fry and scrunching his face up in distaste. Instead of finishing it, he opts to throw it at Richie. ”You don’t necessarily need to intercept a storm for it to be a good spot. Sometimes running parallel is enough.”

Richie retaliates, throwing a handful of fries at Stan “Aren’t you the ff-” He dodges the fries Stan throws back. “Fucking Lead? Like at the end of the day, you can always tell Kaspbrak to fuck off.”

Bev laughs at Bill’s hastily whispered  _ knock it the fuck off. _ Before saying “Well, I could, but how can I say no to those eyes. It’s like telling Bambi to go fuck himself.”

Richie smiles at that “Yeah, I have a hard time saying no to him too.”

Bill hides a startled laugh behind a cough. Stan just gives him a knowing look.

Bev is merciful, choosing instead to say “Saw some interesting pressure changes on the radar.”

“St-storm coming in to hit somewhere near Durant,” Bill nods, flipping his laptop around to show Bev “Looks like it’ll be pretty big.”

“You guys thinking about going out again tonight?”

Stan shrugs “Day’s still young. Touchdown’s what? In a few hours, maybe. If we leave quick, we could probably beat the storm there.”

“We could intercept.” Richie chimes, almost manic.

Bev matches his energy “How big do you think it’ll be?”

“It’s an F4” A voice says from the side of the booth, pulling them away from Bill’s laptop screen. Eddie. His windbreaker crinkles as he crosses his arms. “And no, we shouldn’t go to the site tonight. We’ve had enough action today and Channel 9 wants us to cover some hot spots out east tomorrow. We’ll need our strength for the drive in the morning.”

“You are the most  _ adorable _ killjoy,” Bev gestures at him as if to say  _ See what I have to fucking deal with? _

Eddie ignores the jab, his eyes locking with Richie’s “Dr. Tozier, do you think I could have a word?”

It was like Richie said before, he always had a hard time saying no to Eddie.

“Uh, sure,” He nods, getting up out of the booth.

It’s a bit charming in it’s awkwardness as Eddie leads him to a booth two tables away from where he originally sat. Eddie’s windbreaker makes a little  _ whoosh _ noise as he slides into the seat. Richie takes the seat across from him. What is significantly less charming is the piercing, appraising glare Eddie levels at him as they sit in silence for at least 30 seconds.

Richie, as always, caves first “So…”

“You look like shit,” Eddie cuts him off instantly. “When’s the last time you slept?”

Richie leans back a bit, “Think I took a nap in the van in between that F2 over in Whitesboro and the F1 out by Prosper.”

Eddie hums, as if he’s doing the math in his head “So, 36 hours ago?”

“Is that why you wanted to talk? To show off your math skills?”

“Why,” He scoffs. ”You impressed?”

“No you’re going to have to break out the linear algebra for that.”

Eddie chuckles. Richie assumes it’s out of pity, he’ll take it.

“You remember two weeks ago?” Eddie finally asks. “At the motel between Kingston and Durant?”

Calling it remembering would be an understatement. It was more of a belligerent whirlwind of sights, smells and careful touches. He remembers being attached to Eddie by the lips and teeth. The grip he had on his thighs. The way that, despite the minutes, hours and years in between, they fit perfectly together like carefully carved jigsaw pieces.

“You asked me something,” Eddie says, clearing away Richie’s daydream.

Richie raises an eyebrow “Can you do that thing with your tongue again?”

“No, not that, dumbass,” Eddie groans, leaning forward. His voice drops down to slightly above a whisper, low and intentional “You asked me why I came here.”

Oh. That part, the thing that had been tugging on the back of Richie’s spine ever since they collided a year ago. Usually the question is  _ Why are we doing this? _ The common inquiry between two people in a precarious professional relationship that leaves them bruised and sweating on a King Sized mattress at a Motel 6. Richie already knew the answer to that:  _ Because it’s us. _

No, it was the other part that bothered him. The part that had pulled the answer  _ I needed a change of scenery _ from Eddie’s lips a year ago. It never sat right with him. Eddie never was the type for this line of work. He wanted to save people from storms, not dive head first into them.

“I wanted to say it’s because-”

A crack. The sound of wood hitting glass. It’s just a branch, ripped off a tree by the wind. It’s enough to pull Richie’s attention to the outside. The sky was in that perpetual state of gray, a silent promise of oncoming destruction.

“You’re going out there, aren’t you?” Eddie asks, voice shuddering ever so slightly.

“Yeah, if Bill and Stan want to,” Richie wasn’t the only one of them chasing something bigger than storms, than dragons. He supposes that’s why the three of them stayed together for so long.

“They go if you go,” Eddie’s voice is sure and steady. “And you’re gonna go, aren’t you?”

“What do you want me to say, Eds? I have a job to do.”

“It hasn’t been a job for you in a while, Richie. I think you and I both know that,” Eddie’s brow furrows.

He doesn’t know why he gets angry. Eddie’s gaze made him feel like an animal in a cage, ready to bite at any perceived threat. “Whatever, Kaspbrak. Like you know any fucking better. Don’t pretend you gave up the right to give a shit years ago.”

Eddie’s face softens “You think I stopped giving a shit about you?”

“I would.”

“Good thing I’m not you.”

Richie laughs at that “Wow, tell me how you really feel, Eddie.”

Eddie’s mouth opens, as if he’s getting ready to do just that when Stan walks up to the table. 

“Bill’s got the van ready, we’ve got to head out now if we want to catch the storm in time.” 

Richie nods “I’ll meet you guys out there.”

As Stan quickly paces out to meet Bill at the van, Richie casts one more look at the man sitting across from him. He looks down at their hands, both laid flat on the table, almost touching to the point where Richie could’ve extended his pinkie finger and interlocked it with Eddie’s. He looks back up, Eddie’s brow is furrowed. His teeth are clenched, as if he was preparing to wrap his lips around the word  _ Don’t. _

“I’ll see you around, Eds.” Richie says, his silver tongue working faster than Eddie’s lips.

He stands. Not taking the time to mull over the possibilities of what would’ve happened if he just sat still for a prolonged moment. Each step he tries to empty his head of Eddie’s  _ don’ts _ and  _ waits _ unsaid. He tries to ignore the sound of quick, almost sprinting, footsteps behind him as he exits the diner. He tries to ignore the hand that almost grabs the back of his shirt as he makes his way towards the van.

“Richie, will you  _ stop _ !” 

Richie doesn’t ignore that. His legs were unable to move as if the soles of his shoes were glued to the gravel outside. He doesn’t turn around, but he stops. A pause, the air growing thick with each breath.

“I can’t stop you. I know that. You think I don’t know you, but I do,” Eddie says, his arms crossed. “I know you Richie.”

Richie turns around “If that’s the case then why aren’t you running, Eds? You should be back in some lab, not out here.”

“You’ve done enough running for the both of us,” Eddie says, walking to him, their chests almost touching. “I came here for you, Richie.”

Richie blinks “Eddie I-”

“W-we’ve got to go Richie!” Bill shouts from the van.

They both look at the van then back to each other.

“I came here for you, Richie and you’re going to do the same for me,” he places his hand on Richie’s chest. “You’re going to come back and listen to everything I have to say to you.”

Richie nods, putting his hand over the one that’s on his chest “Ok, Eds.”

“Go,” Eddie slips his hand out from under Richie’s and gently pushes at his shoulder. “Don’t get swept up. I’m not finished with you yet.”

Richie remembers leaving. The newly minted Dr. Tozier, packing up the last of his things left on his desk at the Hydrology lab. 

_ So what happens to you? _ He remembers Eddie saying, his elbow perched against Richie's former desk.

He says something stupid, as is his first instinct  _ I think it's time to follow my dream, Eds. _ The face Eddie made stays forever burned in the back of his eyelids, perhaps more than the whipping storm that takes him away in his sleep. It's a confused, but rather hopeful look. The kind that's a question, or maybe a wish. Sometimes the lines between Richie's hopes and his memories get blurred. The vision is an etched portrait, drawn with shaky hands. Eddie's voice in the back of his head is clear 

_ What do you dream of, Richie? _

Richie remembers his grin, his teeth splitting his face in two. He remembers the way he intimately, but unbeknownst to him at the time, broke Eddie's heart with a single word.

_ Storms. _

Which leaves him here. Standing next to Stan and Bill and a few other Storm spotting enthusiasts. You don't need a license to chase, just a passion and a lack of common sense. Richie had that by the bucketload, he wasn't too worried.

"It was pr...pr...It's supposed to be an F4..." Bill says, holding his brick of laptop in both of his arms, his eyes squinting at his screen.

"You don't seem too sure." Stan replies, his camera aimed at the projected landing site, another piece of open farmland.

"There's some concerning p-p-pressure changes," Bill stares out, as if the empty air could provide him with some much needed answers.

Richie's head whips around, his eyes widening in manic excitement "You don't think-"

Stan cuts him off "You realize we're intercepting the path right now? If it's an F5 we're sitting right in front of it."

"I'm s-s-s...I'm saying that this wind is picking up."

That much was true. The volume of the wind had increased from a dull roar to a piercing whip, their modest van trembling at the speeds. 

It was a familiar feeling, the pressure before the pop.

"It's about to drop!" Richie yells, pointing at the oncoming cloud.

"No way in fuck that's an F4!" Stan yells, aiming his camera.

While Stan didn't have a PhD in Climatology, he did have eyes. The funnel is massive, barely even a funnel, just a winding vortex of wind. Richie's biggest dream was forming right in front of him: An F5. 

"H-Holy shit!" Bill yells, appropriate for the moment.

The sky had quickly shifted from the ambient gray to an electric purple, the tornado bringing along thunder and lightning with it. It was a pure, concentrated harbinger of destruction. Richie would probably describe it as  _ some real, apocalyptic type shit _ . 

"Need I remind you two that we're right in that thing's path?" Stan shouts, the wind becoming deafening. Despite his apprehension, he keeps the camera steady.

"Ok! G-g-gawking time is over! We need to get ahead of it!" Bill shouts, opening the backdoor of the van.

Stan nods, putting the camera down and following. He doesn't even bother to yell at Richie, opting instead to drag him by the front of his shirt to the van.

Eddie Kaspbrak isn’t a person you’d call daring. Rarely is the word used adjacent to him beyond the sentence  _ Eddie Kaspbrak is not daring.  _ Which is why, instead of being at the F5 storm site, he was sitting at the counter of the beat up 24/7 diner whose sole clientele seemed to be truckers and meteorologists, listening to the dulcet tones of Mike Hanlon of Channel 5 news.

_ We have word from our field meteorologists that the Tornado is a category F5. If you are unable to get to a storm shelter, find a central room of your house and stay away from any windows. _

The diner’s sole TV was affixed on the back wall above the counter. A waitress, Eddie believes her name is Maisy, watches attentively. Her hands on her hips as she waits for a new pot of coffee to brew.

“Nasty storm that is. Got a sister up in the area, she took her family to the storm shelter a few hours ago.”

Eddie gives her a tight smile “It’s good she’s safe.”

“You’re telling me! You’d think at this point I’d be used to all of this. Got the goddamned storm chasers in and out of here every spring. I don’t know how you and those boys do it. Dangerous work.”

Eddie just nods, trying to hide the fact this his phone currently sat like a brick in his windbreaker pocket. His texts sitting unanswered.

**_Eddie:_ ** _ IT’S AN F5 YOU NEED TO GO. _

**_Eddie:_ ** _ RICHIE PLEASE. _

**_Eddie:_ ** _ DO. NOT. INTERCEPT. _

Eddie doesn’t know how he does it either.

_ Where do you go when you see lightning, Richie? _

Eddie whispers to him in their shared motel room. They were mostly naked, wearing nothing but their boxers. They weren’t young anymore, but it seemed like they were. The moment was similar to the one’s spent in Richie’s bedroom, all those years ago.

Eddie remembers Richie’s head pressed against his window, a lightning storm dancing in his eyes, with the weight of Eddie’s arms wrapped around his waist. Eddie’s lips press into his back.  _ What do you see out there, Rich? Tell me. _

Eddie remembers silence. That was the give about being with Richie. He was a guy who always had something to say, something to tell you, a way to make you laugh. His silence was always deafening. Eddie could never remember what he said, if he said anything at all. Richie never really had good answers to Eddie’s questions. He remembers being frustrated, a plea falling weak on his heavy tongue, never able to push past his lips. The memory, like most things that sit in the corner of his mind, is atrophied. Faded and morphed as the years turn. He thinks if he said anything it would’ve been  _ Something bigger than myself. Something all encompassing. Something warm, enticing and devastating. _ Eddie wonders selfishly, that whatever Richie saw in the storm that he could possibly see the same in his eyes.

“Got everything cleared with the station,” A voice at Eddie’s side says. He turns, Ben, the one man on their humble team with any field meteorology experience. “We’re good to head East tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Eddie gestures to the seat next to him, inviting Ben to sit.

Ben sends a smile Maisy’s way “Can we get two coffees please?”

“You’re in luck, got a fresh pot coming up,” she smiles back. “Cream and sugar?”

“Please,” Ben nods, taking a seat. He lets out a low whistle. “An F5, good thing it’s pretty rural.”

“Aren’t you used to hurricanes? This should be child’s play to you,” Eddie scoffs.

“It’s all dangerous, Eddie.”

_ Only on Channel 5 can you expect up to date storm coverage all season. We have footage from the field of the Storm’s touchdown. Let’s cut to our Storm Spotters. _

Eddie reflexively closes his eyes. Not wanting to watch, he thinks it’s better that way. However he can still hear.

_ You realize we're intercepting the path right now? If it's an F5 we're sitting right in front of it. _

_ I'm s-s-s...I'm saying that this wind is picking up. _

Two hands rest on his shoulders, shaking him gently “You’re missing the best part, Dr. K.” Bev slides into the seat next to him.

His eyes open just in time to see the storm forming.

_ It’s dropping! _

“Go. Go. Go,” Eddie chants quietly under his breath. “Get the fuck out of there, Richie.”

The feed cuts back to Mike, just as the tornado touches down.

“Amazed Hanlon can keep his cool during storm season,” Bev puts her elbows on the counter and puts her chin in her hands. “Must really wear on a guy, seeing one of your loved ones out there”

“What are you talking about,” Eddie turns to her.

“You don’t know? Denbrough, Channel 5’s Lead Spotter, the one with the stutter, that’s the big man’s husband.”

“Holy shit.”

Eddie looks back at the TV, and sees himself. Not literally, but in the way that Hanlon’s shoulders would tense ever so slightly when he talked about things like  _ wind damage _ and  _ projected casualties _ . He could see the way his eyes glazed over in the studio light, as if the face of the charming Channel 5 weatherman was a carefully crafted mask.

Eddie wished he could carry his worry with such grace.

“Here are your coffees,” Maisy comes by, placing two steaming mugs in front of them.

“One for me too please!” Bev waves.

Maisy nods, scurrying off.

“So, Dr. K,” Bev levels her gaze at him. “What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”

Eddie takes a sip of his coffee, not bothering to add anything to it “What do you mean?”

“Seems you really don’t enjoy the environment,” Ben says from the other side of him, carefully pouring half and half into his mug. “No offense, but you seem like kind of an anxious guy. Not really the tornado type.”

“And what about it?”

“You could be the lead Hydrologist at some fancy climate lab, looking at spreadsheets all day,” Bev says. “Yet you’re here in the ass end of Texas-”

“And occasionally Oklahoma,” Ben chimes.

“And occasionally Oklahoma,” Bev continues. “To panic about storms we don’t even get to intercept. So I’m asking you, what’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”

Wasn’t that the million dollar question. Eddie remembers being on his couch. He had a modest apartment in Sacramento, a ten minute drive from the Capitol’s Climate Lab. It was late, during a time he had affectionately referred to as  _ the armpit of the late night. _ A time where the TV channels he had shifted from reruns of Golden Girls into the usual infomercial run. However, it seemed that the channel he settled on had different plans.

He remembers the tornados, the fabricated reality show drama, the odd editing choices. More importantly he remembers the face of the man who so perfectly had his heart in a vice grip all those years ago.

He remembers the mistake he made in letting him go.

“Guess I found something worth chasing out here,” he answers. His grip tightens around his mug. Ben and Bev saying nothing beyond simply putting a hand on each of his shoulders.

Eddie feels as if he’s suspended in time, the only sound being the warm voice of Channel 5’s Mike Hanlon playing through the TV speakers.

_ As you can see, the storm is making steady progress to more populated areas. Those in Bryan and adjacent counties, please take necessary precaution. We have more footage from our Storm Spotters, let’s cut to that now. _

Richie is, in short, invigorated. If he were asked how exactly they ended up with Bill screaming directions at Stan— who was driving about 25 miles over the speed limit, while Richie had half his body out the passenger window holding their one camera in a death grip, well, he would just shrug and say  _ it felt like a good idea at the time. _

They were keeping a steady pace ahead of the storm. They were in the sweet spot, just ahead of the storm’s surrounding rain but still close enough to get a good look at the thing. A behemoth.

“This one’s for you Channel 9! How’s it taste?!” He yells over the roar of the storm. God he hoped the mic picked him up, how funny would that be?

Richie hopes for a lot of things. He hopes that the Nicks finally win a game. He hopes that he remembered to throw the milk in his fridge out before it expired. He hopes that Eddie is thinking about him.

What he hopes for, most importantly, that this is what breaks the dam. That after all of this he doesn’t go home unchanged. The same little boy, numb to everything but heat, dreaming of storms.

He hopes that all of this is worth it.

_ Storm chasing? You’re really into that shit? _ _  
  
_

It was a quiet moment in the Hydrology lab. Eddie was going over some new numbers that came in and Richie didn’t want to be alone, so he may as well have helped. They hadn’t known each other long, their relationship tip toeing the line between co-workers and friends. 

Richie sat on Eddie’s desk as he typed. It was warm. He remembers that, the feeling of warmth.

_ Fuck yeah, Eds. You’ve never wanted to see an F5? To stare in the face of God and win? _

He remembers Eddie’s huff, the roll of his eyes. _ Don’t call me, Eds. And fuck no, I think being out there like that would give me a panic attack. _

Eddie continued typing, not realizing Richie went quiet, pensive. Richie remembers how he broke the silence.

_ I wish I could feel something like that. _

“Oh! Look! It’s Channel 5!” Maisy yells from her place behind the counter, pointing out the window.

Eddie’s head turns so quickly his neck could’ve snapped. The familiar white, beat up van of the Channel 5 Storm Spotters, pulls into the diner parking lot. Eddie holds his breath as he sees Stan and Bill step out, looking windswept and exhausted. His chest burns as one second passes, two seconds, three seconds…

He finally sees Richie, walking from around the passenger side. He looks a mess. He looks perfect.

Eddie stops waiting and runs.

Richie barely has his lips wrapped around a  _ Hey, Eds _ before he’s ambushed. It happens in two moments, the first being where Eddie slams into him, his hands gripping the front of Richie’s shirt. The second being, where Eddie pulls Richie down into a bruising kiss. It’s desperate, and mostly teeth. It’s a mess.

It’s perfect.

“Excited to see me Dr. Kaspbrak?” Richie laughs breathily, pulling away.

Not too far, as Eddie takes Richie’s face in both of his hands “Are you fucking crazy? What the fuck is wrong with you. You scared the shit out of me, asshole. You should see yourself, you look like a rat that’s been drowned and subsequently blow dried.”

Richie laughs again “Geez Eds, tell me how you really feel.”

Eddie smiles, and he does.

“I love you.”

“What,” Richie’s voice is a squeak. “Come again?”

“The answer to your question. Why I’m here. It’s because I love you,” his grip on Richie’s face tightens. “Every day before I got here I’ve lived in fucking regret. I should’ve never let you, Rich.”

“You didn’t let me go, Eds,” Richie casts his gaze downward. “I ran.”

Perhaps that was the meat of all this. The years spent on the road, looking for the next big electric storm. Richie had spent the majority of his adult life thinking that he was chasing something just outside of his reach. In reality, he was running in the wrong direction.

“I should’ve ran with you, then. I should’ve chased you,” Eddie replies, pulling Richie’s attention back to him.

Richie’s face splits, flashing Eddie a smile of pure electricity “Well you can stop chasing now, Eds.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I love you,” he places his forehead against Eddie’s. “You caught me.”

_ Don’t get swept up. I’m not finished with you, yet. _

  
  
  


Richie is 42 years old when he finally catches the storm in his dreams. He’s standing in his front yard on a low pressure evening, watching deep, lavender cumulonimbus clouds roll in. The wind is picking up, his skin tingling under the rush of cool air. No tornadoes tonight, just dark sky and furious wind. A marvel to watch either way.

“Are you going to be out here long?” A voice calls from his porch. Eddie. He’s standing in one of Richie’s old university sweatshirts and thick sweatpants, the steaming mug of tea in his hands was slowly starting to cool.

Richie smiles at the sight of him, pure electricity “Just wanted to see the clouds roll in, Eds.”

“Well, it’s about to rain. If you get wet I’m not going to towel you off,” he huffs playfully. His voice softens “Come inside, Rich.”

And, without hesitation, he does.

**Author's Note:**

> come stop by my twitter [@chernobrough](https://twitter.com/chernobrough) i be shitpostin and making the smaus :)


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